


april come she will

by flwrpotts



Category: Archie Comics & Related Fandoms, Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Florist!Betty, Pining!, Slow burn!, Tattoo Artist!Jughead, betty/archie brotp, fluff!, the tattoo parlor/florist au we all deserve, veronica/jughead brotp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-03-27 18:36:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13886739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flwrpotts/pseuds/flwrpotts
Summary: “Dibs on the hot blonde florist,” Veronica says loftily as she walks into the store, two cappuccinos balanced precariously on the stack of boxes she’s carrying. As always, she looks just a little out of place in the tattoo parlor, her pearls and dark lipstick juxtaposed against the leather seats and muted lighting.“What,” Jughead says flatly, glancing up from where he’s hunched over a beat-up copy of The Turn of the Screw.Veronica slants a look at him, unimpressed. “The floral shop next door finally opened! You know, the one that’s been under construction for the past three months. It’s adorable, so I popped in to say hello, and- voila! Hot blonde florist. Thus, dibs.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! im back!! this was supposed to be for valentine's day, which...did not happen. anyways, part ii should be up soon, and title comes from "april come she will" by simon and garfunkel." thanks so much for reading!

 

__ I've seen your hand turn saintly on the radio dial/  
I've seen the airwaves/  
Pull your eyes towards heaven/ 

\- true dreams of wichita, soul coughing

* * *

 

“Dibs on the hot blonde florist,” Veronica says loftily as she walks into the store, two cappuccinos balanced precariously on the stack of boxes she’s carrying. As always, she looks just a little out of place in the tattoo parlor, her pearls and dark lipstick juxtaposed against the leather seats and muted lighting.

“What,” Jughead says flatly, glancing up from where he’s hunched over a beat-up copy of  _ The Turn of the Screw.  _

Veronica slants a look at him, unimpressed. “The floral shop next door finally opened! You know, the one that’s been under construction for the past three months. It’s  _ adorable,  _ so I popped in to say hello, and-  _ voila _ ! Hot blonde florist. Thus, dibs.”

Jughead huffs out a laugh, amused despite himself. “Fraternizing with the enemy, Ronnie? I thought you got that out of your system after the Great Cheryl Blossom Incident of senior year.”

“She’s not an enemy! I hardly think that a  _ florist  _ is going to cut away business from a tattoo parlor. But,  _ fine,  _ I guess I won’t share the lemon bars she sent over with me.” 

She rattles the covered dish and arches her eyebrow in an unspoken challenge. Jughead briefly weighs his pride against his stomach, and then reaches for the container, scowling at Veronica’s triumphant grin. 

The lemon bars are freshly baked, and there’s a note at the top, a pastel pink post-it note reading  _ so excited to get to know you!  _ It’s aggressively wholesome, enough to make Jughead uncomfortable, but not enough to stop him from taking a slice. 

He  nearly moans when he bites into it, momentarily rethinking his grudge against their new neighbors. He takes another just as fast, eliciting an eye roll from Veronica. “I’ll give you some alone time, then,” she snarks, maneuvering around him to get to her office. “Remember we open in fifteen!”

“This doesn’t change anything!” he calls back, and tries not to wonder about the mysterious blonde florist.

* * *

 

Veronica and Jughead met when they were fifteen, two angry teenagers forced by their guidance counselors into a support group for children with incarcerated parents. Veronica’s maybe-a-mob-boss father had just been indicted for tax evasion, while F.P Jones was serving six months for one DUI too many. They were polar opposites- Veronica’s polish and glamour contrasting sharply against Jughead’s flannel and perpetual scowl- but they bonded over a mutual hatred of the so-called support group. 

Their relationship had been one primarily composed of whispering snarky remarks and surreptitiously rolling their eyes whenever one of the other group members told the same sob story for the thousandth time, Veronica faux-gagging in the background while Jughead snickered. But eventually, they started to exchange books, trading library copies (him) and first-editions (her) of Melville and Oscar Wilde, sarcastic commentary written in the margins. 

Hiram Lodge was released after only four months, the wheels of prison greased by money, and Jughead had been fully prepared to lose whatever semblance of friendliness that he and Veronica had acquired. She was no longer a social pariah, invited back into her inner circle of cheerleaders and mean girls, while Jughead had been an outcast all his life. But, after her last meeting in the dreaded support group, Veronica turned to him and asked if he wanted to go get a coffee, as casually as if they’d been doing it all their lives. 

Jughead, misinterpreting, had flushed hotly, stammering out an excuse. “Veronica, I think you’re great and all, but, um-”

“Relax, Tim Burton,” Veronica had said with an eye roll. “Dark and broody is  _ really  _ not my type. I could, however, go for a cappuccino.”

Jughead had exhaled in relief. “Only if you’re paying,” he replied, and they had been best friends ever since. 

They were inseparable through the rest of high school, with the exception of a three month break over sophomore year, caused by Jughead falling in deep with the Serpents, the gang his father had led. It was where Jughead learned to tattoo, taking over after seeing the shoddy work done by a man named Tall Boy. He discovered, by chance, that he had a talent for it, and his designs got better and better as the months went by. 

F.P cut a deal to get him out of the gang by the end of summer, and Jughead and Veronica made amends not long after- an admirable feat, considering their mutual stubbornness. However, Jughead’s newfound appreciation for permanent ink stuck around, even after his time with the Serpents ended. He spent the rest of high school doing the occasional tattoo for one of his classmates, though he’d go to his grave denying that it was him who put the outline of a bulldog on Reggie Mantle’s bicep. 

Jughead didn’t apply to college after graduation, his family unable to scrape up the tuition necessary for state school, even with financial aid. He had resigned himself to working at a series of dead-end jobs, working on his novel in his spare time, until Veronica kidnapped him, three days after school ended. 

“Get in loser, we’re going shopping!” she called from the from the backseat of her town car, looking laughably out of place in Sunnyside Trailer Park. Heads turned, but Veronica appeared unfazed, waving cheerily at Fang’s grandmother.  Jughead shot her a look of equal parts confusion and consternation, not getting the reference, but got into the car anyways.

“Is this a hostage situation?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said primly. “There just something I need to show you.”

They drove all the way into the city, Veronica staunchly refusing to reveal the purpose of the trip, even after Jughead used all of his high school investigative journalism skills trying to pry information out of her.

He mentally catalogued all the possibilities  _ (Hiram Lodge finally decided to off him, Veronica committed a murder and needed someone to help her hide the body, there was some terrible party she wanted to go to)  _ but they were all disproven when she beckoned him into what was clearly a cafe, hollowed out and now for sale. 

“What is this?” he asked, taking in the space, the way light flooded in from the windows. Veronica gave him her most deeply unimpressed look, glancing pointedly over to the stainless steel espresso maker. 

“Yeah, alright,” he huffed. “Why are we here, then?”

“Because we own it.” 

Jughead gaped at her, but Veronica avoided eye contact, looking all too blase for his liking. 

“ _ What-  _ How? Why?”

Veronica took a measured sip of the artisanal iced latte in her hand. “I decided I didn’t want to go to college,” she said. “My parents agreed, but only if I had a plan. So I told them that you and I are opening our own tattoo parlor.”

She shrugged, dismissive in the way she always was when she spent exorbitant amounts of money and knew he wouldn’t approve. 

“Your parents  _ bought us a store?” _

“No, they invested in our business,” she said, like the terminology really changed the situation.

Jughead laughed once, incredulous, before sweeping her into a hug. Veronica stiffened for a second, unused to physical affection, before hugging him back. 

“I should be pissed that you made a major life decision without consulting me but- we have a store!”

“We have a store,” Veronica confirmed, wriggling until he set her back down. She brushed at her pencil skirt, is if it had somehow gotten dusty in the process. 

The following months saw them throwing themselves into getting the shop ready for opening, transforming the abandoned cafe into a dark, polished tattoo parlor, full of vintage thrift shop furniture to fulfill Jughead’s artistic sensibilities and a shiny office for Veronica to do the books. And, just a year after graduation, JV Tattoos officially opened for business.

* * *

 

Three days after the flower shop opens, Jughead is just finishing up a new tattoo on Sweet Pea (who he’s pretty sure only keeps coming in to catch a glance of Veronica), when his eyes catch again on the dish that held the lemon bars. He glowers at the expensive-looking dish, which, while cleaned and wrapped in a gold bow, remains on the front desk.

Jughead knows that this is one of Veronica’s games of chicken, and that if he doesn’t return the plate himself it’ll remain on the front desk until it turns to dust. But that doesn’t mean he has to be  _ pleasant  _ about it. He snatches the dish, ceramic and covered in a pattern of daisies, and stalks next door, fully prepared to return it to the mysterious blonde in ten words or less.

The florist’s shop is called  _ The Secret Garden,  _ the storefront done in an elegant, looping script. Jughead walks in, charmed despite himself at the meticulous rows of bouquets that fill the tiny shop. 

“Hi! Can I help you find anything?” 

Jughead turns to see a girl coming out of the back room, looking slightly flustered, but smiling brightly. True to Veronica’s word, she’s aggressively blonde, hair swept back into a knot at the top of her head and held back by a bandanna. She has a fleck of dirt smudged on her nose, and Jughead’s surliness dissolves. 

“Actually, I’m here to return this,” he says, holding up the dish awkwardly. 

But the girl doesn’t appear fazed. “Oh! You must be from next door! I’m assuming you’re the  _ J  _ in JV Tattoos?”

“Yeah, Jughead,” he says, watching as her brow crinkles in confusion. “Trust me, my real name is worse.”

She laughs, accepting the outstretched dish. 

“Well, I’m Betty,” she says. “Betty Cooper. And Archie is- around here somewhere.”

_ Boyfriend _ , he thinks, surprised by the faint pang of disappointment in his chest. It’s an unexpected sensation, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it. Betty pulls a stack of worn books out from behind the register, making room for the dish, and Jughead doesn’t think before ducking to grab the paperback about to slip from the top of the pile.

It’s an old copy of  _ The Secret History,  _ and Jughead grins as he flips it over, taking in the broken spine and highlighter soaked pages. Betty smiles, too, a little sheepish.

“Tartt fan?” Jughead asks, only a little sarcastic.

“It’s my favorite,” she explains, shredding a stray rose petal between her fingers-  a nervous tic. 

“Mine too,” he says as he hands the book back to her. It’s a spare bit of trivia, but there’s something strangely vulnerable about the revelation.

Betty holds the book a little possessively as she takes it back, like it’s something precious, and something tightens in Jughead’s lungs. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the damp smell of flowers and sternly wishing his anatomy to stop misbehaving. 

Silence falls over them, not quite uncomfortable. 

“So, I should probably get back. Veronica will kill me if I take another thirty minute break,” he says, internally cringing at his brusqueness. 

“Sure!” Betty says, smiling softly. “Thank you for bringing the dish back. And feel free to come by anytime- I have more desserts than I know what to do with, and Archie keeps telling me that I’m ruining his gym routine.”

“I’ll keep you in mind for all my dessert-related needs,” Jughead jokes, running a hand through his hair. He leaves the store with one more wave from Betty, feeling just slightly off-kilter. 

Veronica is waiting when he gets back, looking like the cat that caught the canary. She sits perched on the reception desk, legs crossed daintily as she sips at an overpriced iced coffee. 

“So, you met Betty,” she says, grinning with something akin to smugness. 

“Yeah, I dropped off the plate from the lemon bars. She seems great, Ronnie. She gets the best friend seal of approval.” He doesn’t mention that Betty has a boyfriend, certain that Veronica’s crush will fizzle out as quickly as they always do. Her proclivity for romance is like a virus- lasting only 72 hours before dying out and leaving both parties worse for wear. 

“What?” Veronica arches an eyebrow at him, before her face suddenly clears. “Oh! You mean about the other day. Betty is lovely, and we’re getting dinner tomorrow night, but strictly platonic. You, on the other hand-”

“Don’t, Veronica. Or do you not remember the last time you tried to set me up?”

“Ethel Muggs is a lovely girl,” Veronica protests feebly, but the side of her mouth kicks up in amusement. 

Jughead huffs out a laugh. “If you spent less time meddling in other people’s lives and more time meddling with the books, we’d be a lot better off.”

“ _ Please.  _ As if I don’t run the best bookkeeping operation this side of the equator,” Veronica scoffs, but hops off the receptionist’s desk, heels loud against the wooden floor. Jughead settles down at the desk, looking over his afternoon appointments, and feels a tangled combination of annoyance and amusement when he pulls a rose petal out of his hair.

* * *

 

The next day finds Jughead and Veronica camped out in the main foyer, curled up in the crushed velvet armchairs and arguing over what to order for lunch. Veronica, legs tucked up under her and heels on the floor, is making elaborate and numerical arguments for why sushi is the  _ only reasonable option,  _ while Jughead insists he won’t spend another lunch eating “cat food for the bourgeoisie.” He’s just about to push for pizza when Betty walks in, looking oblivious to the heated debate she’s walked into.

“Betty!” chirps Veronica. “Please, back me up and tell Jughead sushi is not only nutritionally sound, but also an important cultural tradition that should be celebrated.”

“Veronica, I hardly think UberEats qualifies as an ‘important cultural tradition.’” 

Veronica sends him a withering glare, but Betty laughs, amused by the exchange.

“Well, I’m not sure about the cultural significance, but Archie ordered way too much Chinese food for lunch. Do you guys want to come over to the shop?”

Jughead is about to come up with a generic excuse, unwilling to have his appetite ruined by the nervous fluttering in his stomach whenever she’s around, but Veronica cuts him off before he can. 

“We would be delighted to!” she says, straightening up to fish her designer shoes off the floor. Jughead tries to glare at her surreptitiously, but Veronica pointedly avoids his gaze. 

The three of them make their way across the street to  _ The Secret Garden _ , where the smell of Chinese food mingled with flowers hits him as soon as the door opens. 

Betty’s boyfriend turns out to be a redhead, tall and toned enough to look like he could have eaten all the food himself. Veronica looks him up and down appreciatively, and Jughead elbows her in the ribs in a warning. As tempted as he is to team up with Veronica to break them up, he isn’t  _ actually  _ going to do anything. 

“Hey, I’m Archie,” the man in question says, offering his hand to shake, the other holding a container of fried rice. He smiles at them, seemingly genuinely friendly, and Jughead forcibly dismisses his long-held distrust of jocks.

“Jughead,” he says, shaking his hand. Veronica steps in front of him before he can finish speaking, grinning sunnily. 

“And I’m Veronica. Veronica Lodge.” She offers her hand daintily, and Archie takes it, lingering a little too long. “I  _ love  _ what you’ve done with the place. Very shabby chic.”

Archie laughs. “Thanks, but Betty does most of it. I grow all the flowers out back, she arranges them and does probably a million other things I don’t know about.”

“We’ve been doing it since we were little kids,” she chimes in, hopping up to sit on the counter. “We grew up next door to one another upstate. It started out as mowing lawns over the summer for pocket money, and spiralled from there.” 

Jughead notices, a little painfully, that she has a sprig of Queen Anne’s Lace tucked in the breast pocket of her overalls.  _Get it together, Jones_ he thinks to himself, and tunes back into the conversation.

Veronica is peppering Archie with questions about the gardens out back, ones that Archie seems all too willing to answer. 

“I’ve always wanted to learn how to grow plants,” she says, a bold faced lie, and Jughead snorts. Veronica elbows him, harder than he did to her, and Jughead winces at the sharpness of her elbows. 

“Yeah? If you want to come over sometime, I can give you some starter plants. Honestly, it’s really easy,” Archie says.

Jughead glances over at Betty, gauging her reaction, but she looks unconcerned, picking at a plastic container of noodles. Jughead moves to sit beside her on the counter, accepting the carton of food that she offers to him. Betty shifts to cross her legs, and her pale knee presses against his. 

He’s about to ask her something, a weak attempt at making conversation, but Betty beats him to the punch.

“Oh! I almost forgot,” she says suddenly, twisting to reach behind the counter. “You mentioned you liked  _ The Secret History,  _ so.”

Betty moves to hand him a novel, dogeared and with a bright red cover, but his eyes catch on the faint marks on her palm. They’re half moon shaped, scarred over and silvery, and Jughead can’t help but be curious. If she notices his attention, she doesn’t say anything, just pulls her hands back and smiles, a little nervously.

“ _ Special Topics in Calamity Physics,”  _ she explains, gesturing to the book. “If you like the whole  _ dark academia  _ thing, it’s great. A little pretentious, but it comes with the territory.”

“Ah- thanks,” Jughead says, touched. “This is great.”

Betty looks like she’s about to respond, but Veronica comes over before she can.

“This has been lovely, but unfortunately Jughead has a 3 p.m appointment he can’t miss. Flexibility is challenging when you only have two employees.”

“Trust me, I understand,” Betty says with a laugh. “But come by again soon! This was fun!”

Jughead and Veronica both agree with varying levels of enthusiasm, and Betty insists they take the rest of the food before they leave, loading them down with cartons. 

“Well, that went well,” Veronica says, looking satisfied as they walk about the store, Betty and Archie waving behind them.

“Yeah,” Jughead replies. “I guess it did.”

* * *

 

He goes by three days later to drop the book back off, and they spend forty five minutes arguing over the ending. Two days after that, she brings over sugar cookies she made. It becomes a regular thing, swapping baked goods and books, getting into “friendly” debates that sometime last hours, spilling over into GIF-ridden text conversations. 

Soon they’re eating lunch together everyday, swapping back and forth between their respective stores. They order so much takeout that the nearby restaurants memorize their orders, one well-intentioned manager going so far as to suggest they cut down on their fast food consumption. Veronica makes fun of him for it for a week, leaving an old DVD copy of  _ Supersize Me  _ on his desk. 

Other days, Betty will bring peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with the crusts cut off, or Jughead will show up with an economy sized bag of pretzels and an apologetic grin. They’re both flat broke, and takeout is pricy, so they dig through their fridges, trying to come up with the most absurd meal they can. Jughead is the current winner, showing up one Thursday with a package of Peeps, ramen noodles, and a bottle of Sriracha sauce that expired three months before.

They watch movies on Jughead’s laptop while they eat, because he’s a film snob and nearly had a stroke when she told him she had never seen  _ Reservoir Dogs.  _ By the second week, there’s an entire system in place- Jughead will pick three of his favorites, Betty will select a winner from the shortlist. She calls him  _ Hitchcock  _ or  _ Kubrick  _  when his picks get particularly highbrow, while he teases her for her fondness for  _ Star Wars.  _

It’s shocking, how easy it all is- passing a bag of microwave popcorn back and forth, arguing over ambiguous endings, watching the credits roll in the darkened back room of the tattoo parlor. He doesn’t have to filter his thoughts around Betty, doesn’t struggle to fill gaps of silence or wonder what to say. He nearly finds it disconcerting, the mindlessness of being around her, the way the anxious clockwork of his brain skitters to a stop. He’s never been one to make friends easily. 

Of course, there’s also the other part: the electric shock when her leg presses against his as they watch Jack Nicholson in the dim light, the sick flutter of his stomach when she calls him “Juggie.” After awhile, it becomes a reflex, to hold back a smile when she scrunches up her nose, to suppress the shivers that wrack his body when strands of her fine, golden hair fall onto his neck. 

Sometimes, when she’ll look at him with her fathomless, cloudy blue eyes, he thinks that she might feel the same way about him too, that she also feels the fine line of tensions that thrums between them. But then he remembers  _ Archie,  _ her respectable, ripped boyfriend, and his stomach bottoms out. 

He tells himself, like it’s a mantra, that friendship is all he needs from her, that he has no interest in linking his hand through hers or waking up next to her in bed. It’s not a new routine- emotional repression has been his M.O since high school. 

But despite his newfound friendship with Betty, Jughead still makes plenty of time to hang out with Veronica, drinking lethal amounts of coffee and making fun of customers’ particularly bad tattoo choices. 

“Did you see that Moose got engaged? To  _ Kevin Keller?”  _ Veronica she without preamble as she walks in on a Monday morning, oversized sunglasses shadowing half her face. 

“How would I possibly know that?”

“God, you really need Facebook,” she says, nose wrinkling with distaste.

It’s a strangely sparse sentence for Veronica, unpopulated by pop culture references or melodramatic turns of phrase. Jughead looks at her suspiciously. Faint purple circles ring her eyes, and she’s wearing  _ flats.  _

“Are you sick?” he asks, mind ticking off the possibilities. 

Veronica looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “No,” she says slowly. “Are you?”

So she’s not ill, or a pod person. 

“Oh my god,” Jughead says, and her shoulders tense. “You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?”

“What?  _ No,”  _ she says, flustered, and Jughead grins triumphantly. 

“Is it someone scandalous? A celebrity?” It wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibility, for Veronica. Jughead had almost spit out his coffee when she first told him Madonna was her godmother. 

She looks around, scanning the room for eavesdroppers before she takes two steps necessary to reach him. 

“It’s new,” she explains, looking surprisingly subdued. “But- I really like them. We’re taking things slow.” Her hands flutter in front of her, nervous and surprisingly earnest. 

Jughead feels a pang of fondness for his best friend. She hasn’t had a serious relationship since her disastrous fling with Chuck Clayton, which hadn’t ended well for anyone involved. 

Veronica is skittish around real relationships, preferring more casual arrangements, but she fiercely loves the few people she lets into her inner circle. She deserves someone good for her, and Jughead is happy to see that she’s found it. Of course, he isn’t going to  _ tell _ her any of this aloud. 

“Do I know who it is?” he asks, because old habits die hard. 

She hesitates, which means it is, and then says “No,” which means it  _ definitely  _ is. 

Jughead decides not to push it. Veronica gets snappy when she’s cornered, and it’s too early for a blowout fight. 

“I’m happy for you,” he says instead, avoiding eye contact and flushing slightly.

Veronica softens, the way she always does when she remembers that she actually likes him. 

“It’s not much of anything yet,” she says, “But I’ll let you know when it is.”

“You better,” Jughead replies, “I have to give them a  _ what are your intentions with my best friend?  _ speech.”

Veronica laughs. “Like that isn’t a patriarchal trend that should have died in 1986,” she snarks, and Jughead exhales, relieved to see that  _ Veronica  _ is back. They both get hives from too much emotional honesty. 

“So, Moose and Kevin are engaged?” he asks, bating Veronica’s love of gossip. “I thought he was dating, um- pixie cut girl?”

She looks at him in disbelief. “That was tenth grade,” she informs him. “Get with the program, Julian West. It all started at the after prom party junior year-”

Jughead tunes out, content to let Veronica detail the entire story while he gets lost in his thoughts.

* * *

 

He walks into  _ The Secret Garden  _ mid-afternoon on Wednesday, carrying an extra large everything pizza and a shit-eating grin. He and Betty are officially close to enough for him to know that, while she’ll complain about the addition of black olives, she won’t care enough to actually pick them off her slice. 

She’s already at the front of the store when he walks in, pacing back and forth. Her posture is rigid, and Jughead realizes that she’s on the phone with someone, mouth pulled at the edge with tension.

“I know, Mom,” she sighs, and Jughead watches as she knots her fist in the front of her t-shirt. He can hear the buzz of a displeased tone on the other end of the line, and Betty’s knuckles go white against her lavender shirt. Jughead wonders briefly if she’s going to break skin, but she suddenly flexes her hand, like she’s trying to resist the urge.

With a start, she notices Jughead staring at her.  _ My mother  _ she mouths at him, rolling her eyes as the woman on the other side of the phone continues to lecture at her. 

“Mom, listen, I have to go,” she says, cutting her off. “I’ll call you back tonight, alright? Yeah. Love you, too. Bye.”

“That sounded pleasant,” Jughead remarks, moving to go sit at the little table she keeps in the back room. 

Betty laughs, the sound coming out more like a sigh. She pulls her hair out of her ponytail, letting the silky waves fan across her shoulders, before she sweeps it back up, tighter than before. Jughead watches the twist of her wrist as she fastens the bubblegum pink elastic, a little entranced. 

“My mother and I- don’t always see eye to eye,” she explains, folding herself into one of the shitty metal chairs. She takes a slice of pizza, chewing methodically, before continuing. “She isn’t exactly thrilled with my line of work.”

“Why?” he asks, furrowing his brow. “You own your own business, you’re financially independent, as far as I can tell, you aren’t a serial killer.”

Betty shrugs one shoulder, shredding her slices of pizza into smaller pieces. “I was supposed to become a doctor or a lawyer. Or a journalist, ideally. Before their divorce, my parents ran the newspaper in our hometown.”

Jughead nods, processing the new influx of information. 

“What about you?” she asks. Jughead recognizes her deflecting onto him, but doesn’t call her for it. “What did your parents want you do to when you were little?”

Jughead snags another slice of piece, trying to figure out a way to answer the question.

“I’m not sure they expected anything of me, to be honest,” he says. “Not that they didn’t care. My mom left when I was eleven, and my dad- wasn’t the most stable parental figure, growing up. He got his act together by the time I graduated high school, but-”

Jughead shrugs, indicating the end of the discussion. Betty stares at him, eyes a little more knowing than he would like.

“You should be proud of yourself,” she says, earnest, and Jughead shifts, uncomfortable with the compliment. 

“It could be worse,” he agrees, glancing out the tiny window in the back to look at  _ J.V Tattoos.  _

“So, Veronica mentioned something about grabbing dinner tonight,” Betty says lightly, shifting the conversation. “I think Archie is coming, too. Are you free?”

“I’ll have to check my overflowing social calendar,” Jughead deadpans. Betty rolls her eyes at him, fond, and his heart pangs in his chest. He clears his throat, trying not to be conspicuous. 

“No, that sounds good. I’m sure Veronica was planning on dragging me out, anyways,” he says. 

That’s how he finds himself sitting at the nicest Italian restaurant in town, wrestled into a tie by an indignant Veronica, who was deeply unamused by his suggestion that he could just buy a clip-on. In some moment of divine cruelty, he’s seated across from Betty, Archie sitting to her left. It’s an odd arrangement, for sure, and Jughead is keenly aware that their party looks like one of a double date. 

Veronica happily holds court over the table, steering the conversation everywhere from the season finale of  _ The Matchelor  _ to the coffee shop opening up next door. Archie watches her, rapt, from across the table, while Betty chimes in with her usual brand of commentary. Jughead edges into the conversation, throwing in the occasional sardonic remark or witty barb that makes Betty laugh in surprise.

When the conversation lapses into one about the celebrity gossip, he lets his attention lapse, content to tune out of the conversation. Veronica and Archie are talking to one another excitedly, with broad hand gestures, and Jughead has to stifle a laugh when Betty slides a sly, knowing smile his way, arching an eyebrow.

“I’ll take it you’re not as invested in the inner workings of Mila Kunis and Ashton Kutcher’s relationship?” she asks dryly, stabbing at a baby carrot. 

“Unless we’re talking about Jackie and Kelso, that would be a definitive no,” he replies dryly. 

“I didn’t take you for a  _ That 70s Show  _ fan,” she says, leaning forward to prop her chin on her hand. 

“You know what they say about assuming,” he quips back.

“I should have known,” she continues. “You’re a dead ringer for Steven.”

“ _ Steven?  _ And here I thought you knew me, Cooper.”

She smiles at him, elastic and bright-eyed, and Jughead realizes with a start that this is  _ flirting,  _ that he is flirting with Betty Cooper  _ while her boyfriend sits next to her _ . 

However, he doesn’t have time to process the realization, because that’s when an all-too familiar voice rings across the restaurant, as clear and teasing as he remembered.

“Jughead!”

He turns in his seat, and there’s Jellybean, not backpacking across Europe like she’s supposed to be, and instead standing in front of him in a threadbare white tank top, electric blue streaked through her jet-black hair. 

“Miss me, big brother?” she asks, grinning widely. 

“What the  _ hell  _ are you doing here?” he asks instead. 

x. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha remember when this was gonna be done in february? and was a one-shot? me neither! anyways, sorry for this horrendous wait, and thank you a million to everyone who left a comment/kudos on the last chapter!! it means the world!!

 

“What are you doing here?” Jughead asks, incredulous. 

His younger sister smiles at him broadly, that same shit-eating grin she’s been sporting since childhood. Her dark hair is streaked with electric blue, a silver stud winks in her nose, and her threadbare white tank top is entirely inappropriate for the restaurant they’re in. He’s missed her terribly. 

“Oh, your landlord told me you were out to dinner,” she says breezily. “There are, like, three restaurants in the center of town. It didn’t exactly take a wealth of deductive reasoning to come find you.” 

Jughead decides not to dwell on the fact that Toni apparently keeps tabs on his whereabouts. 

“I don’t mean ‘why are you in the restaurant,’ J.B. I mean ‘why the hell aren’t you in Sweden?’”

“Sweden is tiny,” she replies wryly. “And besides, Europe has nothing on paying my only sibling a visit.” There’s a pause, and then she says delicately, “Also, I’m on spring break right now.”

Her tone is bright, but Jughead picks up on the sliver of uncertainty in her voice. She isn’t entirely sure if she’s welcome. 

“Of course it’s great you’re here,” he says a little more softly, standing to pull Jellybean into a hug. Despite the growth spurt, she still only comes up to his shoulder, and Jughead props his chin up on the top of her head, inhaling the familiar smell of home. 

Jughead basically raised J.B for the first years of her life, warming up bottles and hushing tears and telling her a minimum of seven bedtime stories each night. His parents had been busy, after all- F.P the II with staying on the wagon and working on a construction site and Gladys with managing her postpartum depression well enough to go to work. Neither effort had been particularly successful. 

Not that J.B remembers any of that- their mother had picked her up four days after her seventh birthday and two weeks before Jughead started high school and driven off, nothing but a note on the fridge to mark her leaving. Any memories Jellybean had of him before leaving were wiped clean by the slate of time, replaced with the gaping hole of his absence. 

One day, Jughead will give her the stack of letters he wrote during that time- clumsy, angry things, words jagging with the missing. But even now, a decade later, the hurt of leaving and being left is too raw for him to broach. 

Jellybean had been angry with him for a long time- for letting their mother take her away, for not chasing after her, for being unable to track down the number. Repairing their relationship has been a fragile, slow process, complicated by their messy tempers and uncanny ability to make words hurt.  _ You two have always been one in the same  _ their mother had used to say, before their childhood had gone sour, much too early.

But now he’s just happy to see her, his baby sister and the flinty, sarcastic eighteen year old that she’s become. They pull back from the embrace at the same time, and then she turns to face the table where his friends are sitting and sporting matching expressions of confusion. 

“Everyone, this is my not-in-Sweden sister, J.B. J.B, you know Veronica, and this is Archie and Betty.”

Veronica is already out of her seat, smiling with excitement. “You look so grown up!” she exclaims, pulling J.B into a hug. The girl in question laughs a little as she returns the embrace. J.B and Veronica had always gotten along, mirror images of one another’s best qualities. 

“And you still look like a movie star. I’ve missed you, Ronnie.”

Veronica waves an elegant hand, and suddenly a waiter appears with a chair, the sort of Lodge brand magical realism that Jughead still finds himself baffled by. 

J.B takes a seat at the head of the table at the waiter’s urging, grinning like the Cheshire cat as she turns to face Betty.

Jughead sends her a pointed glance, but his little sister cheerily ignores the silent warning. “So, Betty, was it?” she asks, propping up her chin on one hand.

“Betty Cooper,” she confirms, holding out a hand to shake. “Archie and I own the shop across the street from  _ J.V Tattoos _ .”

“The flower shop?” J.B replies, enthused. “I passed it on my way over. It looks adorable.”

Jughead has the sudden, intrusive memory of J.B at age six, ripping up handfuls of grass and giggling madly when he would string daisies into flower crowns for her. Something in his chest pangs, a little painfully.

“It’s a work in progress,” Betty says, running a finger along the rim of her glass of white wine. 

Jellybean tracks the movement, and subtly glances at Veronica. The two proceed to have a conversation using only their eyebrows. Betty looks at Jughead, like they’re in on the joke, and a smirk tugs at the side of his mouth. Archie appears to be pleasantly confused by the layer of subtext currently drowning their table in silence. 

“So, how was Europe?” the redhead asks, seemingly genuinely interested in the question.

“Yeah, Jug mentioned you were studying abroad,” Betty pitches in. “What are you studying at school?”

J.B perks up from where she was stealing a breadstick off of Jughead’s plate. 

“Yeah, I’m a freshman at NYU, majoring in psych,” she says. “Um, I was in a lab, doing  research that addresses how cultural and economic differences impact children as early as their first year on a cognitive and thus neurological level . The dream is to establish a lab  that focuses on how socioeconomic status and cultural values impact the trajectory, presentation and treatment of psychopathology in child and adolescent populations.”

“Nerd,” Jughead teases, but his tone is warmed with pride for his sister, her natural intelligence. 

Betty asks several thoughtful, provocative questions that J.B is all too eager to answer, and Jughead finds himself zoning out of the conversation after a few minutes, having already heard her spiel about a thousand times. However, the sense of ease that he feels is harder to ignore. 

There’s something that feels  _ right  _ about their little configuration- J.B and Betty talking enthusiastically about the effects of intergenerational trauma on brain development, Archie and Veronica wandering off into a conversation about whether or not he should get a tattoo, everyone’s voices layered over one another and blending into a sort of comfortable blur. 

They leave the restaurant late, just as it’s closing for the evening, and he walks Betty home, Archie and Veronica deciding to catch the late show at the movie theatre and J.B heading over to unpack her stuff at his apartment. They all split up at the corner, and Jughead scowls when J.B suggestively waggles her eyebrows at him behind Betty’s back.

The night air is warm- fully, finally spring, and Betty sighs, rolling her shoulders and inhaling deeply. The moonlight illuminates the fine-boned planes of her face, the startling blue of her eyes, and Jughead struggles not to stare. In the pale light she’s as beautiful and supremely untouchable as an old movie star on the screen of the Twilight Drive-In. 

“I like your sister,” Betty says, breaking the comfortable silence. Their hands brush, warm and electric, and Jughead swallows, hard.

“She’s a brat,” he says, voice fond.

“She reminds me of you,” Betty replies, smiling like there’s a secret she isn’t telling him.

Jughead thinks of his brash, outgoing, punk rock to the bone little sister, and his disbelief must register on his face, because Betty laughs. 

“I’m serious!” she protests. “You’re both smart. Sarcastic. Care a lot about people, even if you don’t always quite know how to show it.” There’s a brief pause as Betty hesitates. “You both give the sense that you feel as if you’re a little on the outside. Even when you aren’t.”

Betty sidles a glance at him, gauging his reaction. He thinks of his mother, all those years ago.  _ Two of a kind.  _ He thinks of him and J.B, one reflecting inwards and the other out, but always feeling the same things. Tension rises up between them, muddy and thick.

Jughead laughs, because he doesn’t know how else to dissolve the uncomfortable honesty that percolates around them. “Any other psychological insights, Dr. Freud?” he jokes.

Betty blinks at him, letting him get away with it. “You have spaghetti sauce on your chin.”

Jughead puts a miraculous amount of effort into not blushing as he swipes at his face. Betty’s apartment appears suddenly, and Jughead realizes with a start that their walk is coming to an end. 

They both dawdle in her doorway, uncertain, and then Betty takes the necessary half step forwards to press a kiss to his cheek, feather light and enough to knock him over. 

“Goodnight, Jug,” she says, and then disappears into her apartment before he can say a word. 

“You’re an enigma, Coop,” he replies to the closed door, feeling for all the world as if someone’s stuck a hand inside his chest and rearranged all his internal organs when he wasn’t looking.

* * *

 

The next week sees J.B hanging around  _ J.V Tattoos _ , providing witty commentary on the various comers and goers and generally being a pain in his ass. Jughead tries to put her to work sweeping the place, but she spends her time doodling tattoo designs instead, pinning the fast food napkins she uses as canvases up in the windows afterward. 

Jughead delivers a winding monologue about the importance of  _ artistic integrity _ , but much to his chagrin her designs turn out to be a hit, resulting in three new sales in as many days. Two of the three belong to Sweet Pea, both fractious, abstracted pieces, made to look like shards of light and darkness. 

He has to admit that the work is good, despite the protectiveness that pickles at him when he bears witness to J.B shamelessly flirting with Sweet Pea from across the counter, one hand wrapped around his freshly bandaged bicep. 

He’s just coming around the corner, nose buried in Betty’s heavily annotated copy of  _ In the Cage,  _ when he hears their mingled laughter, a shocking sound from the normally stoic man.

“I have one, too,” J.B says, pulling up the edge of her shirt to reveal the patch of dark ink on her hip. The tattoo is of an apple, a shift of dark around it that looks far too much like a serpent for comfort. 

He realizes with a start that the illustration is from the Bible that laid dusty and untouched on the mantle of their childhood house. The Serpent and the Apple.  _ God.  _

“Wicked,” says Sweet Pea, impressed. 

The book clatters out of his hands, making a racket from where it hits the floor. J.B and Sweet Pea both start, looking equally guilty.

His expression must say it all, if Sweet Pea’s murmured goodbyes and hasty exit from the tattoo parlor are anything to go by. But J.B just squares up her shoulders, looking braced for one of the knock down, drag out fights they’d been fond of when they were younger. 

“Don’t even start,” she warns sharply, meeting his gaze with a steely look of her own. “Hypocrisy, thy name is Jughead Jones.” 

“You’re only eighteen! How can you possibly be certain that what you want now will be what you want in twenty years?” 

“You got your first tattoo when you were sixteen,” she relies petulantly, and anger kicks at his rib cage.

“J.B, I was being forced to join a gang. It wasn’t exactly a joyful decision. You of all people should know better than to make false equivalencies.”

She rolls her eyes at him, but softens ever so slightly. 

“Look, it’s a shitty comparison,” she says. “But that doesn’t change my point. Don’t treat me like I’m some dumb kid. I knew what I was doing when I got it, and I don’t regret it.” 

She looks at him fiercely, and Jughead realizes with a start that this is something that she wants his approval on. All the fight trickles out of him. 

“At least it’s well done,” he says grudgingly, and J.B smiles widely at him, knocking their shoulders together in bemusement.

“Don’t be jealous that my tattoo artist is more talented than you,” she snarks, and he laughs along with her, retrieving his forgotten book from where it’s fallen under the table. 

They don’t talk much on the walk home, but the silence is of the comfortable sort. He wants to ask what it means- the apple, the serpent, the metaphor that must exist underneath it. But he doesn’t. If there’s anything he’s learned in his two years of professionally doing tattoos, it’s that you don’t ask for the reason behind the ink. But even without having a definite reason- he thinks he understands his younger sister a little better. 

J.B gets along well with Betty and Veronica, too, and over the next few days the two girls drag her out of his apartment for spa days and movie nights and other mysterious adventures that he would prefer not to have details on. 

But she’s only home for a week, and soon enough he’s helping her collect the piles of her things that have diffused across the apartment, putting them all into her comically gigantic suitcase. It’s a Sisyphysian effort, and he knows that he’ll be finding stray socks and tubes of mascara for a month in his couch cushions and behind bookcase. 

In truth, he doesn’t much mind it. It’s something of a relief, to have some tangible reminder of her once she’s gone. Jughead is surprisingly torn up about her having to leave again, despite the clots of hair in the shower drain and the new assortment of tofu in the fridge. He forgets how much he misses her until every time he sees her again, and he staunchly pretends there isn’t a lump in his throat when he helps her load her luggage into the back of the Uber that’ll take her to school. 

“If you ever want to visit, the door is always open,” he says as he hugs her goodbye, and J.B laughs, the sound muffled.

“Thanks, big brother,” she replies. “I’ll keep that in mind. And hey-“ She pulls back, making eye contact with him to show that she’s serious. “Don’t screw things up with Betty, okay?”

“There’s nothing  _ to _ screw up,” he replies, indignant, but J.B just rolls her eyes at him and gets into the back of the Toyota Camry.

* * *

 

“Bullshit,” he tells Betty, under no uncertain circumstances. “ _ Oxford  _ is a proper noun, and therefore not valid in the Scrabble dictionary.”

They’re sitting on the floor of  _ The Secret Garden,  _ a Scrabble board laid out in front of them and two hard ciders perched on a nearby stool. It’s six p.m, and the working day is long over, but Archie and Veronica are both out on mysterious errands, and Betty and Jughead had decided it wasn’t worth it to relocate to one of their apartments. 

“I was talking about the style of shoe,” she quips back, and Jughead stares down at the board, deciding. 

“The  _ O  _ in oxford shoe is capitalized,” he tells her, calling her bluff, but Betty only arches and eyebrow at him. 

“Well, you’re free to challenge it if you like,” she says lightly, only to grin triumphantly when he spins the board towards himself with a world weary sigh. “And then you’ll lose your turn and I’ll be even further in the lead.”

“I didn’t take you for a Scrabble cheater,” he informs her, and this time she actually laughs. 

“I didn’t take  _ you  _ for a Scrabble sore loser,” she replies, stretching her arms over her head and sighing contently. 

“Sore loser? I’m only behind you by seven points. I’m going to make up that gap in no time.”  
“I’ll take that bet,” Betty says, something fond and faintly nervous in her expression. “Loser has to buy the other dinner.”

Jughead swallows, hard. “You’re on,” he says, willing his voice not to betray him. 

Finally, he lines his tiles up on the board.  _ Buzzard.  _ Betty scowls at him, but doesn’t call the word. 

“Better start saving your pennies, Coop,” he says, pencilling his points into the scoresheet. 

Something in his stomach flips at the sight of her, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, glaring down at her letters like they’ve personally betrayed her. He’s pretty sure he could sit on a dusty concrete floor and play Scrabble with her until the end of time. He takes a long sip of cider, suppressing this unfortunate realization. 

Betty narrowly pulls off a victory, and doesn’t even have the good grace to be smug about it. Now that the game is over, she’s once again the perfect sport, helping him pull up the board and collect all of the errant tiles. 

“Another cider?” she says, and he nods, reluctant to let the conversation ends. She digs one out of the tiny fridge at the back of the shop, and neatly pops off the cap with an orchid shaped bottle opener. 

“Gag gift,” she says when she sees him looking at it. “My big sister.”

Jughead nods, tucking away the kernel of information for later, and they both sit in comfortable silence for a minute, watching people pass through the shop windows. A little girl passes by, hand in hand with what looks like her sister, and Betty smiles, a little wistful. 

“So, not to ask the obvious,” he says, breaking the silence. “But why flowers?”

Her mouth tips up in a soft, thoughtful smile, a little shy. She takes a sip of her drink to collect her thoughts. 

“Well, part of the reason is that I’ve always done it,” she replies. “But, also- did you know there’s a whole language of flowers?”

“In theory,” he says, not quite sure where she’s going with the whole thing. “It’s Victorian, right?”

Betty wraps a piece of twine around her finger as she talks, a nervous tic that Jughead would write off, if not for the way her skin turns an angry shade of red from where the string digs in. He fights the urge to unwind it from her fingers, to hold her hands in his own until the redness fades. 

“My mother and I didn’t always get along,” she explains. “And in high school, I didn’t know how to- to say how I felt, or what I wanted. And then I found this book in a garage sale-  _ The Victorian Language of Flowers _ . It was this ancient, falling apart old thing, but I read the entire book in one night. Suddenly, I could say  _ go fuck yourself _ or  _ I have a crush on you _ without having to say anything. And to everyone else it just looked like bouquets. I never stopped loving it, even after I moved out.”

Betty flushes a little bit, slightly embarrassed. 

“Sorry,” she says. “That was probably a little more psychoanalysis than you were looking for.”

“Oh, I’m always down for some good psychoanalysis,” he replies, and she laughs. 

“Alright, then. Your turn. Why tattoos?”

Jughead shifts in his seat, trying to figure out the best way to tell the story. 

“My dad was in this gang,” he says, taking the blunt approach. “He led it, actually. The Serpents. Tamer than you might expect, but, y’know, still a gang. He went to prison when I was sixteen for a DUI, right about the time that I met Veronica. Things were okay for a couple months, but then they came to me one day after school, told me it was time I started pulling my own weight.”

He pauses for a moment, sneaking a glance at Betty. She’s watching him intently, face serious, but there’s no pity in her gaze. 

“To make a long story short, part of the initiation to be a member is to get a tattoo,” he says, and hikes up his t-shirt to reveal the snake that still curls along his ribs. It’s a thick, heavy tattoo, not much finesse, and he feels his face heat up under her gaze. 

“Oh, Juggie,” Betty breathes, and leans forward to brush her fingers across the tattoo, slowly tracing his ribs. Jughead visibly shivers, her delicate fingers leaving a path of goosebumps in their wake. 

“I’m sorry that that happened to you,” she says, sincere, and Jughead avoids eye contact as he shrugs, uncomfortable with the expression of empathy. 

“It is what it is,” he says, pulling the hem of his shirt down when she leans away. “Regardless, I took over doing ink for the gang, and even when I eventually got out, the tattooing thing stuck. Veronica and I went into business after graduation, and the rest is history.”

She nods at that, taking a thoughtful sip, and Jughead self consciously traces the outline of the snake that he can still feel underneath his  _ S _ t-shirt. 

“But why do you like it?” she asks suddenly, looking like she can’t help but pose the question. And this is what he likes best about her- her natural curiosity, that itch for the truth that outweighs her manners, the one that he has too. 

Jughead mulls over the question for a few seconds, trying to come up with an answer. 

“At first, it was to distinguish myself from my father. A lot of times as a teenager, I felt like people looked at me and saw him instead. Tattoos were a way to push back against that, I guess. To make myself an individual.”

“That makes sense,” Betty says, picking at the papery label on her bottle of cider, deep in thought. Jughead swallows, drawing up the courage to keep speaking. 

“But I think I kept doing it because I realized that I like making the internal external. A lot of times, the tattoos that people want, they mean something. I mean, obviously not the drunk college kids that want the Knicks logo tattooed on their ass. But most people that want a tattoo, it’s because they have something that they need to say. And I like being a part of that process. Helping to draw out what people don’t way to say aloud, or can’t say aloud. I don’t need to know what exactly it means. Just knowing that it means something- it’s enough.”

He finally turns and looks at Betty, only to realize that she’s staring at him intently. Her eyes are huge and her lips are pursed and there’s something in her expression that makes him think she might cry. 

“Jughead, I-” she starts, and then the door of the shop flies open, and Veronica walks in, already talking a mile a minute. 

“-cannot believe you guys are still here on a  _ Friday.  _ Our 20s aren’t going to last forever! My friend Josie has this band, and they’re playing a show tonight, and we’re all going.”

Betty still has color high in her cheeks, but she turns to smile at Veronica, uncurling her legs from underneath her. Jughead clears his throat, trying to regain his stability. 

“That sounds great, V,” she says softly, and the other girl smiles in excitement. 

“Perfect! Let’s get you back to your apartment to change into something a little more pop band worthy. Jug, we’ll meet you at yours in forty?”

“Sounds good, Ronnie,” he says, and the two girls are out the door before he has the chance to ask Betty what she was going to say.

* * *

 

The show is fun, or as fun as a crowd of drunk people screaming can possibly be for someone like Jughead, and they all end up crashing in his and Veronica’s apartment, spread out on the floor in a tangle of blankets. 

Betty must wake up early, before eight, because Jughead wakes up to the smell of coffee and food cooking. He stretches as he sits up, looking over to where Veronica and Archie are sleeping with their legs tangled together and her face pressed into his chest. 

Jughead wonders if Betty is going to be upset as he pads into the kitchen, barefoot and in flannel pajama bottoms, but she just smiles and presses a mug of coffee into his hands, already prepared with cream and enough sugar to kill a small dog. 

“Morning,” she says easily, turning back to where she’s cooking eggs onto the stove. Like a dream, he can see himself stepping up to wrap his arms around her, ducking his chin to kiss her shoulder, her smiling and telling him she’s going to burn the eggs if he keeps that up. For a moment the desire is so visceral, so real, that he has to mentally pinch himself. 

“Sorry about ransacking your fridge,” Betty says, startling him out of his reverie. “I figured you guys would be hungry.”

“I’m honestly surprised you found enough food for breakfast in there. Veronica and I aren’t exactly stellar cooks.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.”

They both laugh, and then Betty turns, and he realizes she’s wearing the tacky  _ Kiss the Cook  _ apron Veronica bought him as a joke gift three Christmases ago. 

“Help me make pancakes?” she asks, opening up the cabinet, and he steps forward to help her reach the box of mix.

“Of course,” he replies, and her smile is quick before she’s setting him to work.

It’s almost unbearably domestic, flipping pancakes at the stove while Betty cooks omelets next to him, knocking elbows and occasionally pausing for refills of coffee. She teases him about his flipping techniques and he swipes batter on her nose in retribution, shocked by his own daring. Betty’s shocked laugh at the action wakes up Veronica and Archie, who both stumble into the kitchen, rubbing at their eyes. 

“Sleeping beauty awakes,” Jughead teases, and Veronica rolls her eyes, elegant even in an old t-shirt and bedhead. 

“Please tell me there’s more coffee,” she says in tired reply, and Betty hands her a prepared mug. 

“Betty Cooper, you’re my hero,” Veronica declares grandly, pecking the blonde on the cheek before going to perch on the counter. 

“That seems to be the general consensus,” Archie agrees, ruffling her hair, and Betty swats at him with her apron ties. Something in Jughead’s stomach twists uncomfortably. He suddenly feels stupid, standing there with his beanie off and a spatula in his hand, like a kid playing make believe. 

“Who’s hungry?” he says, a little weakly, and then everyone is loading up their plates and heading into the living room, watching reruns of  _ Friends  _ and talking spiritedly about how Ross is the  _ worst  _ and debating which character they would be. 

“Betty’s Monica, and I’m Rachel,” Veronica decides firmly, leaving no room for argument. 

“Well then, I’m Joey,” Archie says, tracking onscreen as Joey and Chandler compete to see who can put on the most layers of clothes. “Jug, you’re Chandler for sure.”

Jughead decides not to delve into the symbolism of  _ that  _ particular casting decision, and before long Betty and Archie are leaving, off to do the weekly bookkeeping for the shop. Betty tries to clean the kitchen and wash the dishes for them, but Veronica has none of it, and waves her off with a stern order to  _ relax.  _

Jughead and Veronica return to the living room after they leave, ignoring the mess that is the kitchen in favor of sprawling out on the couch. It’s nice, spending time alone with Veronica. It’s not often that they get to hang out in a non-business context, and he misses her when they don’t have a chance to just hang out, even if they’re seeing one another every day.

“So, how are things going with your mystery suitor?” he asks, because Veronica still hasn’t told him who it is. 

She smiles, a small, private thing that’s such an unfamiliar expression on her face that Jughead finds himself taken aback. She’s one of the least sentimental people he knows, after him. If whoever it is is enough to make her that gooey, Jughead supposes he has to approve. 

“It’s good,” she says. “It’s  _ so  _ good, actually. It scares me a little, how much I like him.”

Jughead doesn’t comment on the change in pronoun. “It might be good to be scared,” he says softly, and Veronica runs a hand through her hair, thinking.

“God,” she says. “Remember in high school how every person I liked just flaked out on me, or turned into this huge drama? I thought that was going to be my thing. I can’t believe how easy it all is.”  
“I would say you lucked out with whoever it is, but he couldn’t do better than you.”

Veronica laughs a little, swinging her legs into Jughead’s lap. It warms him, Veronica’s affection and physical proximity; she’s been one of the people who’s been most consistent in Jughead’s life since they were teenagers. And while there’s never been anything even the slightest bit romantic between then, Jughead reminds himself again how grateful he is for Veronica knocking down all the walls and barriers he has thrown up around himself.

“Can I say something without you getting mad at me?” she asks, twisting to pick her glasses up off of the side table. 

“You can try,” Jughead retorts, and she kicks him lightly. 

“I know you’re doing your own thing, and that you’re happy with that,” she says, eyes wide and earnest. “I just- I don’t want you to be afraid to fall in love with someone.”

“Thanks, Veronica,” Jughead says absently, but she sits up on the couch, crossing her legs to look at him more intently. 

“I’m serious, Jughead. You’re a  _ great  _ guy. You’re smart and you care about people and you’re passionate about things. Anyone would be lucky to be with you. Not all relationships are going to be like the ones you’ve had.”

Jughead winces, thinking back to his brief relationship with Sabrina and even briefer one with the barista at the local coffee shop in Riverdale. 

He nods slowly, thinking. He fights his instinct to change the subject, to shift the focus off of himself. 

“I know that, rationally,” he says. “But…”

“But?”

“Every relationship I’ve had, it’s felt- forced. Or, I don’t know, difficult. And I think about how shitty I felt when it ended, and how shitty I make other people feel. Sometimes I don’t know if I even want to fall in love again.”

“I know Sabrina did a number on you, and I know coffee girl was a bad fit. But they aren’t going to be the only people who want to be with you. You know that, right?”  
“Rationally, I do. It’s just harder, in reality.”

“Trust me, I get it. You and I are the king and queen of trust issues. But there are some people that are worth it.”

“Thanks, Ronnie. I’ll keep it in mind with the endless line of suitors wrapped around the apartment,” he says dryly. Veronica huffs and slides off the couch, going to take a shower. 

“Good. And let me know if you want me to set you up with someone. I’ve been feeling match-makey lately,” she says with a sly grin, before disappearing down the hallway.

Jughead lets out a long exhale, flopping back onto the couch with more questions than answers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you again for reading!! pls know that kudos and comments mean the world, and come hang out with me on tumblr @flwrpotts!!

**Author's Note:**

> friendly reminder that comments & kudos mean the world, and thank u again for reading!!


End file.
